Carnacki: The Watcher at the Gate

by William Meikle

  “I was in a tight spot, and no mistake. I paused chanting long enough to get a pipe lit and have a smoke, trying to calm my inner turmoil. Even that small break from the ritual caused the ice to creep back up over my wrist, bringing with it a dull, cold ache that threatened to have me screaming.

  “Someone knocked on the front door, the sound reaching me only as a dull thud. It had to be the butcher’s boy again, delivering my Christmas goose. I yelled and called out, to no avail, my voice seemingly lost in the cold air that surrounded the defenses. I considered stepping out of the circle, making a run for the door, but I am too old a hand at the tricks of the denizens of the Outer Realm. I knew that only certain death would follow that course of action.

  “I smoked, alternating puffs on my pipe with renewed chanting. This went on for quite some time. I managed to maintain the use of my arm, and keep the ice confined to my frozen hand, but the pain was excruciating, I can tell you. After a time I started to grow tired. I could tell by the movement of the shadows that the day was drawing on. Occasionally I would hear the far-off sounds of festivities in the street outside, and at noon I clearly heard the church bells ring out in Christmas cheer. But for me, it was a long, cold, miserable day, with no merriment or joy.

  “My legs refused to support me any longer at some point in the mid afternoon and I was forced to sit down. The floor was cold under me, but tolerably so, for the present. I was also getting dashed hungry, but the fact that I was denied access to my bathroom made me thankful for small mercies.

  “And so there I sat, as the ice in the room beyond got thicker and thicker until I was all but encased inside a frozen bubble around my defenses, like being entombed in the dead center of a cold diamond.

  “After a while it started to get dark outside.”

  c

  Carnacki stopped to knock his pipe out on the grate. “What say you, Arkwright,” he said. “Is this now a better story than before?”

  Arkwright, as had we all, had been too engrossed in the tale to even take any of his drink. He did so now, gulping down a generous portion of Carnacki’s fine Scotch before replying. “A tight spot indeed, old man,” Arkwright said. “How in blazes did you escape? And …”

  Carnacki stopped him with a wave of his hand.

  “All in good time, old chap. All in good time. But first, let us recharge our glasses again. I have a chill in my joints, but this Scotch is doing its best to remedy that.”

  Two minutes later we were back in our chairs with new drinks and fresh smokes. Carnacki gave us a second or two to settle, then launched back into his tale.

  c

  “As I have said, I was in a dashed tight spot, and at quite a loss as to what to do about it. It was only as night drew in that I remembered the writing on the bathroom mirror that morning. ‘Help me. For pity’s sake, help me.’

  “A new thought struck me. What if I was not, in fact, under attack? What if I was, with my defenses and chanting, actually impeding the attempts of something that only wanted to communicate with me?

  “It was a theory I was loath to put to the test any time soon, for I had already felt the chilling result of letting down my defenses. If I dropped them completely, I would surely be dead in next to no time. So there I was, in a library full of arcane wisdom that might rescue me from my predicament in short order could I but get to it, with cold seeping ever further into my bones as I became ever more exhausted. I was having trouble concentrating on the chant, the tiredness and cold taking their toll. Even another smoke on the pipe failed to revive my spirits.

  “I started to drift, part of me aware that to do so was sealing my fate, another part of me caring little, wishing only to rest and get some respite from the cold and pain. You chaps might have turned up this evening only to find me frozen on the library floor, if the ring had not chosen that moment to send a flare of pain through my whole arm that was impossible to ignore.

  “A voice spoke, cold and far off like a shout in a high wind, but the words were clear enough.

  “‘Help me. For pity’s sake, help me.’

  “I knew then what had to be done. I yielded to the inevitable, leaned forward, and wiped away a portion of the circle, leaving myself completely defenseless.”

  c

  Carnacki stopped again, and although it had only been several minutes since he last paused, I saw that his glass was already empty. It was unlike him to drain his glass so quickly, but I could clearly see that he was very tired, as if he had been under a great strain, and when he held out his glass to me, I took it immediately.

  “Be a good chap and fill this for me,” he said. “I can’t seem to get myself warmed up.”

  The act of handing me the glass meant that his shirt was pulled back away from his wrist, and I was dismayed to see that the skin there looked gray, dry, and cold. He saw me looking and pulled his cuff down to cover it.

  “Nothing a snifter won’t cure,” he said.

  When I filled his glass and handed it back to him, he took a long sip of it before continuing.

  c

  “I could only lie there and wait, powerless to do anything else, rigid with cold and pain. As it turns out, that was exactly the state that was required to come to a resolution of the affair.

  “It started with the voice in the wind getting stronger, more insistent. ‘Help me. For pity’s sake, help me.’”

  The ice-dome around my defenses fell inward with a deafening crash and I was suddenly half-buried in broken ice that was already fading to smoky nothingness. The ring on my finger throbbed.

  “‘Help me,’ the voice said, loud in my ears. The ring tugged at me, there is no other word to describe it, as if someone had taken my hand and was leading me. I pushed myself to my feet, kicking aside the last remnants of the ice, and stepped out of the circle. I was astonished to see that nothing remained of the ice but a thin mist. It drifted upward and was soon dispersed in a slight draft. The ring tugged again. By this time I had got the message. I went where it led.

  “I was given only enough time to grab my overcoat in passing through the hall before I was almost dragged out of the front door and out into the night.

  “There then followed the strangest Christmas night of my life. I walked—or rather, I was led—across Putney Bridge and through most of South London. I was leg-weary before I even started, but the tug of the ring was insistent, and there was little I could do but follow its lead.

  “The saving grace was that, apart from the lower part of my right arm, I was no longer quite as cold, and indeed I felt sufficiently revived to manage to light a pipe as I walked.

  “The streets were quiet, this, by now, being the early hours of Boxing Day … today, of course … and apart from several revelers under the influence of too much liquor, I passed no one.

  “I was led all the way to the other side of town, coming to a halt in the fruit and vegetable market under London Bridge where the voice came back, at its clearest so far.

  “‘Help me.’

  “I could now place the direction from which the shout was coming, and, helped by more insistent tugging from the ring, was led to a flight of steps that led down to the river.

  “And it was there that I found him, lying in the partially-frozen river. It was a man, or had been once. Now he was little more than a skeleton held together by remnants of clothing and what skin and sinew had survived. He had obviously been in the water for quite some time, but that did not stop him whispering to me.

  “‘Help me,’ the voice said.

  “So I did just that.

  “The rest of the night was taken up with constables, inspectors, statements and, thankfully, copious amounts of tea and toast at the London Bridge police station. I was hard-pressed to explain exactly how I knew where to find the body, and what had brought me there at such an hour of the night. But in the morning I was able to call in an old favor from Scotland Yard, and after that things went a lot more smoothly for me.

  “There is just one mor
e thing left to tell. My hand had remained frozen all night, much to the consternation of the police doctor who offered to have a look at it for me. Just as they were about to let me go, I overheard a conversation between a constable and the Inspector.

  “It seems he was a victim of assault and robbery, sir. There’s not much chance of catching the blackguard, and anything the poor man had on him will either be spent or sold on the black market by now. But we have identified the victim, a Mr. Holroyd from Bromley. We are dispatching someone to tell his wife now.”

  A burst of heat ran up my arm, and I felt the ring loosen. I shrugged it, already warm, from my finger and handed it to the officer.

  “I believe she will want this, constable,” I said. “I think it might have been meant as her Christmas present.”

  c

  Carnacki stopped, and smiled sadly. “And there’s an end to it. I got a carriage home, fell into bed, and only woke an hour before you chaps were due,” he said. “Merry Christmas, indeed.”

  Minutes later our evening had come to an end, all of us recognizing that Carnacki had yet more sleep to catch up on, as he looked near dead on his feet.

  “Never fear, chaps. I shall be fit and well soon enough, and next time, I promise, we shall get to the story of Chislehurst caves, for it has a happier ending altogether. Now out you go,” he said.

  And out we went.

  The Black Swan

  I had not heard from my friend for several weeks, so it was with a mixture of relief and anticipation that I walked along the Embankment that Monday night in late spring. I headed toward Cheyne Walk and the hope of supper and a new tale, with Carnacki’s card of invitation sitting snug in my breast pocket.

  Carnacki did not disappoint, with supper being both as plentiful and as tasty as ever, and as the clock struck nine we were all seated in his parlor with drinks filled and fresh smokes lit as he began.

  c

  “This story begins on Saturday morning,” he said, putting his drink down where, like our own, it was forgotten for some time as the power of the tale caught us, then held us spellbound.

  “I answered a knock on the door—it had been so quiet I had not quite been sure I had heard anything at all, but it was repeated shortly afterward. On opening up I found a young girl, barely more than a child, on my doorstep. She was a small thing, slight in build, but with a head of curls that was clearly well-maintained—and her clothes, the dress in particular, spoke of her coming from a moneyed background. This was no street waif looking for pennies. The hem of her overcoat was caked with mud, as if she had been walking for quite some distance on the damp streets, and she had been crying, but the set of her face told me that she was resolved to get something off her chest.

  “‘You are Mr. Carnacki, sir?’ she said, and her speech was as well-mannered as I would have expected, given her dress. ‘Oh, I do hope you are Mr. Carnacki, for I have come such a way to see him, and if I do not get home soon Papa will be sorely vexed with me.’

  “I invited her in, fed her a glass of milk and some sweet biscuits, and slowly but surely I got the story out of her.

  “Her name was Catherine, and her most immediate worry was that her parents were going to be very angry with her.

  “‘Papa does not know I am here,’ she said in barely more than a whisper. ‘But it has been getting worse this past week, and you are the only man in England who can help me, Mr. Carnacki, sir. Please say that you will help me. If you do not help, it will take me away to the bad place and I will never find my way home again.’

  “‘What will take you away?’ I asked, hoping that she would eventually forget her fear long enough for all the tale to be told. Finally she got to the point.

  “‘The big black bird will surely take me away. It lives in the closet in my room, and it has been getting bolder each of the last three nights. I fear the time is coming soon for it to come out and snatch me.’

  “I almost laughed, but managed to control myself. To have mocked this child, one in so obvious distress, would have done rather more harm than good at that point.

  “‘My dear girl,’ I said, trying to be as kind as I could muster. ‘There are no monsters in closets that cannot be banished with morning sun and a strong will. They are not really there, do you see?’

  “She sobbed, a small pitiful sound that dashed near broke my heart, and reached into the small purse she had been clutching on her lap since she arrived.

  “‘I knew you would say that, sir, for it is almost exactly what Papa has been saying to me—but I have this. It has been leaving one for me these past three nights.’

  “She opened her purse and took out a black feather, the color as deep as jet, the surface shimmering in a rainbow sheen as if something stirred and almost wakened. I was loath to touch it, for it felt somehow wrong, but touch it I did when she passed it to me, and it felt warm and alive in my hand.

  “‘I have been having the dream since I was a child, ever since I can remember,’ she said. There were fresh tears in her eyes, but once again she showed the resolve to continue. ‘I walk through the closet door and out into a handsome open vista. I am on the edge of a high sea cliff. I feel the wind on my face, and I can taste salt spray, and smell cut grass and flowers. I feel as if I could just give myself to the wind I might fly and soar. And then it comes, from tall, blue, snow-covered mountains way to the north, a black speck at first, getting bigger quickly. Before I know it, the black swan is upon me, enfolding me in feathers. It lowers its head, which is as large as I am tall, and puts its beak near my ear. It whispers.’

  “She dabbed at her eyes with a fine lace handkerchief.

  “‘Mostly, that is when I wake. Mostly. But this past week it has been getting harder and harder to escape the thing. When I back away from the bird and the cliff I find myself in a dark place that is too cold and too quiet and it is so, so hard to find my way home. These three nights past I have woken screaming, giving the whole household quite a fright. And each time, there is one of those feathers lying in my hand.’”

  c

  “Now, you chaps know me,” Carnacki continued. “I am not one to walk away from a damsel in need, however young they might be. This girl was clearly in some distress, and my first priority was to fetch her home to her family. But there was indeed something strange about that bally feather, something I found that I almost recognized. It seemed to writhe like a small snake in my hand as I passed it back to her, and she wasted no time in locking it away in her purse, as if putting it back in its cage.

  “The length of the carriage journey back to her parents told me just how resolved she had been to find me. It took an hour to get her to the address she gave in the Western end of Kingston-Upon-Thames, a tall, handsome property on the riverside sitting back from the main thoroughfare.

  “It was almost noon by the time I got her home. Her father, a Mr. Fraser, eyed me most suspiciously, and quizzed her in some detail on my involvement in her escapade before deciding not to call the constabulary and have me hauled away to Pentonville. I related how she had turned up on my doorstep, and she told, with some indignation, as if she was annoyed at having to explain herself further, of the black bird in her closet.

  “At that point Mr. Fraser tried to dismiss me, and I could tell by his demeanor that he had little patience with the girl’s story or, indeed, with my reputation as something of an expert in the field.

  “‘This is a Godly house, sir,’ he said in that high-handed manner some gentlemen have when their view of how the world might work is questioned. ‘I can assure you that there is nothing untoward occurring here.’

  “And at that, Catherine burst into tears again and began to sob, long and loud. Mr. Fraser almost immediately made matters worse.

  “‘Now do stop sniveling. You’re a big girl now—far too old to be believing in fairy stories and such utter nonsense.’

  “The girl ran, wailing loudly, into the house, and after watching her rather dramatic departure, Fraser finally sho
wed me that he cared for her. He turned to me, his concern obvious.

  “‘I would not speak of it in front of the child, but this goes far beyond mere childish imagination, Mr. Carnacki,’ he said. ‘My poor wife is at her wits’ end, and the girl herself is in danger of making herself quite ill. I am dashed sorry she has involved you in this matter, and I would quite understand should you walk away right now. But, please, if there is anything you think you could do that would help, I would welcome it.’

  “Having successfully surprised me with this outburst, he surprised me further by leading me toward the door.

  “‘Come inside—I shall have Mrs. Fraser fetch us some tea, and you can hear our side of the story. You see—we cannot chide her overmuch for her tale, nor can I continue for too long to tell her it is all a mere fantasy—for we have seen it too. The black bird is in our house. And it seems to have come to stay.’”

  c

  “Catherine was upstairs somewhere, making quite the noise with her continued weeping, but she fell quiet rather quickly while I spoke to her parents. I believed it was because she heard me speak in the parlor and realized that her quest to bring me from Chelsea and keep me here to help had in fact been successful.

  “Whatever the cause, the house was quiet around us as Mrs. Fraser—a prim, rather formal woman—served tea and crumpets. Fraser did most of the talking, and if Mrs. Fraser’s hands shook as she lifted the tea cups, I was far too polite to make mention of it, although it was obvious to me that there was a great deal of nervous tension in this household.